


Together at last

by A_Quiet_Place



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, M/M, Marking, care, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8451238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Quiet_Place/pseuds/A_Quiet_Place
Summary: Will and Hannibal's recovery and first intimate moment after the fall. I tried somewhat for plot, honest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not the best with intimate writing, but gave it a go anyway. After several re-writes here is the result until I am ashamed of it and take it away.

Will slips in an out of consciousness, his body aches, his vision is hazy. Reality seems disjointed and unfamiliar. He remembers Hannibal, leaning over him, dressed unlike himself, in a too big white t-shirt murmuring something in gentle, accented tones. His hands press against Will's cheeks, those cold eyes turned warm with some strange familiarity. Will's distress falls away, a smile tugs at his lips as he lets himself fall back into nothingness.  
  
He wakes coherently for the first time in the dark of night. He's warm, and aching all over. His clothes are nothing more than bandages wrapped around his middle, and a pair of boxers for modesty. He allows his eyes to adjust to the shadows, taking stock of his situation. The ceiling and room position are unfamiliar, almost dizzyingly so.

There's a spot at the inner joint of his arm that itches and stings when shifted, likely a drip line. One of his legs itches with the brush of harsh fabric, the limb feels stiff and uncomfortable when he tries to move it. There is a dull throb deep within his flesh, stilling his motions, it's broken, but tended.  
  
His wedding ring is gone.  
  
Against his shoulder there is a warm and heavy pressure, he turns his head slightly to see in the dim light. He can make out a mountainous shape draped in blankets beside him.

He knows it is Hannibal.  
  
He can smell the scent of his skin and feel the warmth radiating from the other body. Dull memories flood his mind of those elusive lucid moments, sure hands and low voiced tones. He shifts his head slightly to examine their proximity, the heavy weight on his shoulder is Hannibal's hand, firm and possessive pressed against his flesh.  
  
He waits for the memories, gently prodding at the back of his mind for any sort of context for his situation. The simple scrape of tongue across dry inner cheek brings it all back to him, he can taste blood, feel the ridges of stitches knitting his flesh together. The images of battle against the dragon washing through his mind like a wave.  
  
He can't bring himself to be upset that they are both still alive after the fall.   
  
He can't bring himself to feel much of anything but the enveloping calmness the like of which he's never felt before.  
  
He lays still in the dark, sorting through his mind, cataloguing the events that lead to this, it is a long process, he has to take into account Hannibal's driven goals, a task not so impossible any more, but his memories are clouded with his encephalitis and the tormenting images he can't be sure were real.

When the sun rises Will has come to a conclusion about his future with Hannibal, and when he turns his head to look at the man beside him it is to see the maroon eyes of the former psychiatrist staring back at him, head rested on a pillow.  
  
“Don't try to speak too much, Will.” Hannibal's voice is heavy with exhaustion. “Your stitches need time.” The hand on Will's shoulder raises to brush against his good cheek, fingers tentatively seeking the skin. Will knows instinctively this action has been repeated through his stay in this room, as if Hannibal needs the contact like he needs air.

“You have been asleep for three days.” Hannibal allows his hand to rest against the flesh for a few moments. “I have tended to you as best I can, but you will need more bed rest to heal properly.”  
  
Will has the burning need to convey his feelings to the man beside him, and he carefully parts his lips, licking them with too dry tongue to ease the passage of his voice.  
  
“I'm sorry.” The words croak and catch, pulling with them a rush of emotion, like a cork from a bottle. His vision blurs with tears.   
  
Hannibal's eye's crease with warmth, his heavy body shifts up the bed, showing only a ghost of a wince at some awakened pain. He presses his forehead to Will's, his hand gently moving once more to cradle the expanse of his collar bones.  
  
The Lithuanian holds his gaze, and Will gets the overwhelming sense that he would be forgiven for anything as long as he stayed with Hannibal. They are part of each other, he can see it now, reflected back at him through Hannibal's eyes. It is enough to make him ache for the time lost.

He is uncertain whether it is his feelings or Hannibal's that brings up the sensation.

Their union has been obsessive, and deadly, Hannibal has killed for him, taken from him over and over. Scarred him, physically and mentally in pursuit of the completion of his self. Of their selves. Now he has attained it, he will never let Will go, in life or death. The empath does not need to seek out any design to know that to be truth.   
  
They are like two sides of the same coin, united at last, as if they had been parted to test the limits of their need for each other.

Will settles back, allowing the heat from their connected flesh to lure him into rest, his eyes already grow heavy as his body uses his remaining energy to mend itself. Hannibal does not move from his side until late morning.  
  
Will is mostly bed ridden for the next few days, one of his legs is broken, and his ribs are cracked, making movement painful. He had taken the brunt of the impact of the fall. Hannibal is covered in a litany of bruised skin, his right forearm is bound tightly with splint, bullet would carefully stitched and excruciatingly tender, but despite this he is taking care of the both of them.  
  
As Will heals he finds himself the center of Hannibal's world. There is an unsettling care to the monster made flesh. He treats Will as if he were treating his own body, an artwork in need of careful repairs. He feeds them, his accented tones filled with the same joy as he held for food preparation before he had an end to his dinner parties. Even for the soft foods he feeds Will, there is a great pride in providing for the smaller man.   
  
Will doesn't question what is in the mix. He is exhausted from caring.  
  
Hannibal is often gone for hours, returning with supplies; fresh bandages, clothes and food. Will spends the time carefully and slowly moving about the small cabin. It is a small space, a bedroom, a bathroom and an open dining room come lounge, with a very small but serviceable kitchen. The owners belongings are covered in a layer of dust, suggesting it is a holiday home, not visited in some time. It is simple, and tidy, with no close neighbors or traffic to bother them. How Hannibal managed to drag them here is any ones guess. Will remembers none of it.

They don't talk to begin with, beyond the necessary, as if speaking will break the fragile balance of the pinhead they are standing on. Hannibal remains ever professional in the daylight hours, feeding and helping Will bathe or move to the toilet with as much clinical distance as he is able. He refuses to allow Will to be embarrassed by their situation, giving him a steady shoulder to lean against and respectfully turns his gaze away when the need arises.

It is in the night hours that the facade drops, the ex-psychiatrist becomes increasingly close to the empath; seeking some form of contact when they sleep. Crowding their bodies together even though the bed has space enough for them both and then some. Will often wakes in the night to find them pressed back to back, forehead to neck, or having Hannibal's arm draped over his chest, like he wants to crawl under Will's skin.  
  
Will doesn't mention it, often just pretending to sleep until Hannibal gets up for the day. He is not sure where his boundaries are any more when it comes to Hannibal. His mind is a jumble of both of their feelings, he is no longer sure where he begins and the cannibal ends.  
  
It's perhaps natural progression when he wakes uncomfortably warm, unprepared for the restriction that binds his limbs down triggering a moment of utter panic. His scrambling for freedom causes the restriction to pull tight, like a trap around his chest.  
  
“Be still. You are safe.” A murmur at his ear gives him pause. In an instant he knows it's Hannibal's chest pressed against his back, encircling him with strong arms, his legs are parted around one of Hannibal's thighs. Those too red lips are tucked under the unruly curls of Will's hair.   
  
“Hannibal?” Will whispers hesitantly into the dark. His breathing escalates, because god this is _so intimate._ It gives way to a new kind of panic.  
  
“Will.” Is the low, rumbled reply, before those lips trace along his exposed neck. The empaths breath hitches as the thigh between his legs shifts upwards placing a gentle pressure against his groin. 

It's embarrassing that this is all it takes for him to swell in arousal.

Hannibal, to his credit, says nothing, only continues pressing his lips to the skin he finds in reach of his mouth, his thigh offering a very slight friction that leaves Will breathless.

If Will is honest with himself, he is hardly surprised that Hannibal's need to touch him has escalated in this way. He has been aware of the other man's inclinations for some time. Will had denied it on the cliff, electing to embrace the taller man with his arms alone, though the longing written all over Hannibal's face was one of the most vivid emotions he had ever seen the man express. Hannibal had accepted what he'd had to give, even as Will pulled them off the edge of the cliff, he hadn't fought for more.

That time has passed now.  
  
Will turns his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Hannibal's face, hoping whatever is there will give away the others intentions. Hannibal's dark eyes meet his own, and the overwhelming sense of obsession and belonging flood into Will like a tide. It is dizzying, he sucks in a breath to steady himself, to try and de tangle Hannibal's raw emotions from his own.  
  
“Are you going to refuse me, Will?” The murmured voice hides an undercurrent of need. The implications that Will has complete control over the situation releases some of the tension building up in his shoulders. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that Hannibal would do anything he asked at this point.

“No.” Will replies, without more than a moment of consideration. He's given up trying to deny himself that which he wants. That which he knows Hannibal wants.  
  
“Thank you.” The earnestness in Hannibal's tone catches him by surprise, as do the fingers that wander down his chest with assured confidence, lightly brushing past sensitive skin and scars. They hook themselves into the elastic of his boxers and with no preamble, tug the thin protection outward, giving his hands space to maneuver.

Will manages a gasp when the doctors steady hand wraps around his cock, tugging at the skin without hesitation. His thickening shaft is more than happy to react to the attention, not allowing him a chance to regret his choice. Hannibal's other arm is coiled around his collar bones, pulling him flush against the broad chest.

Will closes his eyes and swallows thickly, he can feel the other man's own arousal pressing into the small of his back, and he can't help but follow that train of thought a little too close to its inevitable conclusion.   
  
With Hannibal pressed up against him, it is almost as if he is an extension of the others body, it feels natural. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle. That thought alone almost brings the whole affair to an embarrassing and sudden end. His gasped moan is enough warning to have the overly talented hand slow to an agonizing pace, squeezing too tight, pulling him away from the precipice.  
  
“Are you alright, Will?” The empath internally damns Hannibal for voicing concern now, of all times, forcing him to give voice to the desire. Forcing him to admit that Hannibal knows exactly how to touch him.  
  
“F-fuck.” Is all Will's willing to say, he's writhing against the thigh, his own hand wrapping around his tormentors in an effort to speed things along.  
  
“Language.” Hannibal resists the urging, altogether too composed in comparison to Will, and very probably smiling. He presses his thumb to the dribbling end of Will's cock in punishment, and Will is beside himself. A strangled groan shakes free of his lips, and he knows he must look and sound exactly like he doesn't want to.   
  
“Don't stop, for fucks sake.” Will growls at him, refuting the control of his voice. He is rewarded for his boldness, as the steady tug begins to speed up again. The thigh, pressed against him, not to be forgotten, begins slowly rubbing against his balls.

The slick of pre-cum makes obscene noises between their hands, coupled with the panting breaths and sudden gasps of pleasure, proves Will is losing his mind. He can feel Hannibal's smugness radiating from him, but can't bring himself to care.

He's drowning in both his own and Hannibal's need, he can feel the older man press into him, that swollen flesh against his back finding some friction between their heated bodies.

Hannibal's broad lips trace along his neck, hot breath tickling the sensitive hair before he tastes the flesh with clever tongue.

It hardly takes long until Will is desperate to release. He's pulling at Hannibal's hand, trying in vain to force the movement to his needs.

Hannibal responds with sharp bite into the meat of his shoulder, sending him over the edge. The sudden pain brings a near screamed cry from Will's mouth as his body goes taught as a line in Hannibal's grip. His hips buck into their fists with urgent rhythm, as his seed spills over their fingers. Shocks run through his body as Hannibal worries the flesh, his tongue flicking against the blood.  
  
He has never cum so hard in his life.   
  
The implications of that are just too much right now.

Hannibal lifts his soiled hand, and Will watches with a lethargic haze, as the cannibal brings the seed to his lips and licks it off his fingers. It should be alarming, but it isn't, not really. This attention will escalate now Hannibal has a taste for him, Will can't bring himself to mind.   
  
Hannibal looks almost predatory, he gathers Will against his chest in a rough motion, causing the smaller man to grit his teeth as his ribs protest. He shifts his weight to have higher position over the empath before catching Will's mouth with his own, sharing the taste of themselves.  
  
He kisses like he eats, savoring every taste as if he had prepared it exquisitely. In a way, he had.

Will is gripping arms around his middle like his life depends on it, fighting back the groans in his throat as Hannibal ruts against him.

Hannibal cums in silence, his teeth digging into that already mangled spot on Will's shoulder, as if he meant to pull the flesh off with it. Will is almost screaming, his rigid body held tight against Hannibal's to prevent his escape.   
  
It will be another scar marking him as Hannibal's for the rest of his life.

Very soon, Will is going to return the favor.

 


End file.
